


trostlos

by wingsofbadass



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8999611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofbadass/pseuds/wingsofbadass
Summary: Once, every person had something to do. A job, a profession, maybe even a calling. Something to keep them alive in more ways than one. People worked to feed mouths and people worked to feed souls. But that was once.Now, the only real thing left to do is survive.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nobodyhasblindedme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nobodyhasblindedme/gifts).



> Happy holidays, dear! This was a super fun prompt to work with and I really hope you enjoy it!

_trostlos (adj.) - bleak, desolate, without hope_

* * *

 

Once, every person had something to do. A job, a profession, maybe even a calling. Something to keep them alive in more ways than one. People worked to feed mouths and people worked to feed souls. But that was once.

Now, the only real thing left to do is survive.

Jean Kirschstein is lacing up his boots, trying to ignore the wisps of his breath made visible by the crisp air in the apartment. For a last time he checks the contents of the utility belt hanging a little too loosely around his hips, making sure all his essentials are on him, before he rises from the wobbly chair and leaves the room. Crunching noises are the only sound as he steps over a ground composed of grit and dirt carried in through smashed windows and cracks in between the heavy wooden boards that someone nailed over them. He barely feels the signs of former life through the thick soles of his shoes; pens and pieces of clothes and wires and snack wrappers.

When he exits the apartment, he leaves the door open. It's the only door in this building that still has a functioning lock and can provide a little bit of safety. Or maybe the nostalgic feeling of safety, Jean isn't sure. His stomach grumbles viciously as he descends six flights of stairs, but Jean's mind is already on what he's about to do. It's not like he has anything to eat anyway.

Outside, the sky is dully bright, gray in a listless kind of way, like it can't even be bothered to take on a more atmospheric color. The air is sharp in his lungs and on his cheeks. Even though he doesn't even need them yet, he pulls his heavy-duty work gloves from his pockets and pulls them on. Flexing his fingers makes them slip into the warm fabric properly and the motion has become comforting in its familiarity.

As expected, the area is utterly empty of life. The scenery is dominated by the utterly defunct and destroyed. Rusted cars clog the three-lane street in both directions, an echo of people trying to escape the city. Storefronts lie torn open, their innards lie strewn over the sidewalk. With one glance Jean can tell none of it is of any use to him.

He checks that the store to his right is the last one he went into the day before, before the scarce daylight of the season fled and left him in the dark and without purpose. It's a former video rental store, a half-torn Kill Bill Vol. 2 poster he hadn't noticed before swaying slightly in the window. Jean smiles a little, remembering his passion for movies in what feels like a different life now.

Shaking off the sudden wistfulness, he turns to the left and climbs through the broken glass of what used to be tanning salon. He doubts there'll be anything here, but he never skips a place. With a schooled eye and sure hands, Jean begins to sift through the chaos. Unsurprisingly, he finds a large amount of long-expired lotions and creams. But there are always unexpected items to be found, ones that make him wonder how the hell they ended up where they did. This place, too, doesn't disappoint. There's a little toy car, red and missing one tire. Under the turned over reception desk he discovers a single roller skate. The only thing he pockets is a slot screwdriver.

Over the course of the morning, Jean works through a shoe store, an optician's, an insurance agency and a hairdresser without really finding anything worth taking. His fruitless efforts paired with the painful emptiness of his stomach, has Jean growing rough and irritable in his work. He finds himself slamming doors of empty cabinets shut and impatiently sweeping things to the floor, making more noise than is advisable, but he just can't help himself.

The last thing he ate was a couple of stale rice waffles he received from a woman in exchange for a pair of tweezers. He might as well have eaten styrofoam. Almost feeling sick with hunger, Jean moves on to the next shop, not even caring about what it once was. Judging from all the paper covering the floor like a carpet, it sold office supplies or something, and it has his heart sinking, because what could possibly be useful here?

Nevertheless, he digs through the piles of paper and occasional piece of trash, barely even seeing anything after a while. His vision swims with exhaustion and frustration and he's ready to just melt to the floor and not get up for a while, when something yellow catches his eye. From underneath a planner, he unearths a dented little cardboard box, the colors faded but the lettering still clear: _Earl Grey_. When he opens the lid, he finds seven tea bags, undamaged.

This is what Jean does.

He finds things.

There is someone he knows who will want this tea. And that means Jean will get something he wants in return.

With renewed purpose, and the little box safely tucked into the pocket of his jacket, Jean gets up from the floor and wipes his face. He takes a deep breath and then goes around the cash register into the back of the shop. From a door to his left, the overpowering stink of the bathroom has him lift his scarf over his nose. He continues on and finds himself in a tiny kitchen, where an old-fashioned coffee machine and microwave take up most of the space of the counter. The microwave is empty, as are all the cabinets, save for a couple of filter cones that flutter to the ground. And then, underneath the sink, in between cleaning supplies and a magazine about pans, there's a single can of tuna.

“Holy shit,” Jean breathes and his stomach cramps in reply.

In a matter of seconds, he's stumbling back outside into the cold, the can clutched to his chest. He drops to the edge of the sidewalk and, ignoring the stinging pain in his knees, begins scraping the top of the can against the rough concrete of the street. When the metal is rough and flaking, Jean takes out his jackknife and pries the lid open. He barely has the patience to drain the oil, but while he may be hungry he's still not idiotic enough to risk getting sick. Then, he yanks off his glove and eats the pieces of fish with his bare fingers, right there in the middle of the street.

* * *

 

Hermina used to be a fancy part of the city and even now, Jean can't help but tip his head back to look at the beautiful facades of the buildings as he passes them, at the intricate stucco and the bay windows. He'd lived in several boroughs throughout Trost, some shitty, some nice, but he'd always wished to one day be successful enough to be able to afford a place in Hermina. He could live here now. Just find himself an apartment or even just a room that is somewhat inhabitable and just stay there. But the allure had vanished along with everything else.

Jean climbs over that leather sofa on the sidewalk that looks like someone carried it out of the building to load it into a vehicle, then just left it there. After walking all the way up here, he considers throwing himself into the upholstery to rest his aching legs, but the thought of what might be living in it is discouragement enough. Every couple of steps, he strokes over his jacket pocket to make sure the tea is still there.

When he reaches number 279, he pulls the scarf down from his face and heads up the dark old stairwell. On the third floor, he halts to catch his breath for a moment in front on the door that reads _Ackermann-Smith,_ before he knocks loudly. As he waits, he finds himself stepping from one foot to the other, excited to see a happy face for once.

A shadow flickers behind the spy hole, but the door doesn't open. Taken aback, Jean takes a step closer to the door and knocks again, softly. Had they forgotten about him?

“Hello?” he calls uncertainly. “Erwin? It's me, Jean. The – the guy with the tea.”

After a moment, there's the click of the lock being turned and then the door opens a fraction.

“What to you want?”

Jean blinks. The man whose one eye he could see is not the one he expected. He'd seen him from afar before, heard his voice from the back of the apartment. Heard his name uttered in the most gentle way. From what Jean recalls, his name is Levi. Jean sees dark shadows under a severe stare that makes something in his chest freeze.

“Oh, uhm, I found this tea,” he says and produces the box from his pocket. “I know Erwin likes it and I thought –”

Jean falters as Levi pulls the door open wider. There is a look of devastation on his pale face now, gray eyes fixed on the tea. Dread descends over Jean like sudden darkness. There is a kind of anguish every single person who has survived until now knows and there is no getting used to it.

“I fucking hate Earl Grey,” Levi mutters without lifting his unblinking stare from the box in Jean's hand, voice so flat it didn't even echo in the hallway.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Jean offers the tea to Levi, who takes it with a shaking hand.

“Thank you.”

Silence is heavy between them. Jean's mind races with questions about where Erwin is, what happened to put that look on Levi's face, why them, what happened, what happened, what happened. Levi is still staring at the tea, cradling the box with impossibly tender hands, and Jean understands that it's not really the tea Erwin loved.

Suddenly, Levi seems to remember himself. His gaze, sharp once more, snaps up to Jean.

“What do I owe you?”

Shocked, Jean holds his hands up. “N-nothing, it's alright!”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Levi's voice leaves no room for argument. He speaks with a forceful authority that makes Jean wonder what he used to do, before. “What did Erwin usually give you?”

Struggling to remind himself that this is what he _does_ , Jean clears his throat. “Well, usually some food.”

Levi gives a curt nod. “Come in. But take off your filthy shoes.”

Stepping into their apartment is like traveling back in time. Once the door closes behind Jean, every single reminder of the outside world, of their now, is shut out. There's a hollow feeling in his chest as he follows Levi into a spotless living room, its neatly arranged furniture and rows of bookshelves seeming unreal to him. If it weren't for the lack of electricity, it might just as well be cosy home from before.

There is art on the walls, unmarred canvases with rich colors that are almost too vibrant to Jean's tired eyes, but he can't look away.

Everything in this apartment is so _whole_.

A picture catches his eye and he steps closer to the little frame sitting on the an end table. It's a selfie, something he would never have associated with the two men. Erwin's eyes are bright and brilliant, younger than Jean had ever seen them. The way his cheek is endearingly smushed against Levi's temple has Jean's heart twisting. There are no shadows on Levi's face; instead he wears the kind of smile that just won't be fought down no matter how hard you try.

Jean looks up from the photo when he hears a rustling sound. The older, more broken Levi silently offers him a ziplock bag full of what looks like dried fruits and vegetables as well as a packed up sleeping bag.

Immediately, Jean holds up his palms.”That's too much! I can't ta –”

“You can and you will.” Levi's voice allows no protests and so Jean lets himself be ushered to the door, head swimming.

“What happened?” he blurts as he steps out onto the landing.

For a moment it seems like Levi isn't gonna reply. His eyes are on the floor again, not seeing. “We got jumped. I cut off the arm of the fucker holding Erwin. They cut his throat.”

Horror and grief cinch Jean's throat.

“You don't have to bring me any more tea,” Levi says, something terrible in his eyes when he looks up again.

And he closes the door.

* * *

 

The cobble stones at Jean's feet are a mosaic of shimmering gray under the rivulets of water trickling down the alley. He's standing in the doorway of an ancient house, pressed to the door in an effort to keep out of the heavy rain. Since there is nobody left to maintain the old city center, garbage, clutter, filth is being washed downhill towards the river and Jean watches it all go past him. The narrow alley with its closely built houses makes him feel like he's standing at the bottom of a canyon, so he doesn't look at at the grim sky.

He feels trapped enough everyday.

Exhaustion gnaws at his body, more and more a trait of his rather than a transitory condition, but still he feels uneasy at being stationary like this. Before, his recklessness would probably have made him stalk through the rain just to shake off the sensation of doing nothing, being nothing. He knows the risk of getting sick is not worth it, though. Fighting off a something as simple as a cold in these conditions is not something he's keen on.

With a sigh, Jean lets his temple rest against cold stone of the arched entryway and closes his eyes. The rush of the rapidly falling rain and its trickle over the cobbled ground are his only company, a lonely melody to accompany his solitude. So he begins to sing under his breath, lyrics still suck in his memory after years and years, just derive some comfort from a voice. Even if it's his own.

A noise startles him into silence.

Focusing, he tries to pick it up again over the rain and the hammering of his heart.

And there it is; a faint voice, calling for help.

Before he has any time to think it through, Jean is storming out from under his shelter into the downpour and up the street. The steep angle would be mildly annoying under normal circumstances, but with the little flood cascading down between the houses, it's a struggle. Within seconds, Jean is drenched.

The alleyway curves to the left, taking Jean with it, and then a figure comes into view.

A guy is lying on the ground, obviously unable to get up. Jean squints through the rain, trying to make out what the problem is, but it's no use. The thought that this might be a trap flashes through his mind, but something in his gut tells him to keep going. Jean has always been a creature of instinct and so far, it has never failed him.

The guy only notices him once Jean is almost there. His eyes fly up from where he's struggling to lift his upper body off the ground to stare at Jean, features twisted in pain.

“Please help me.”

Jean comes to a halt, his head spinning. There’s a huge fucking hunting trap in the middle of the street, its massive jaws clamped tightly around the guy’s right leg. Even if it weren’t for the unnatural angle, the agony etched into the face in front of him would be enough to confirm that the leg is viciously broken.

Without any idea what to do, Jean drops to his knees to examine the trap. He blinks repeatedly, trying to clear the rain from his sight. To both sides of the metal contraption, two large springs are keeping the jaws closed around its prey.

“I’ve tried to press down on those,” the guy tells Jean, voice weak despite his obvious efforts to raise it above the rush of the rain. “But I just - I can’t”

Jean nods at him, hoping the gesture is reassuring in some way, because in his chest, he feels panic beginning to swirl fast. While he’s carefully putting his gloved hands on the springs, the only thing on his mind is the fact that somebody set up this trap. Somebody intended to catch something here and seeing as they were in the heart of the city, there were barely any animals around. Certainly none of the size this trap was made for.

Suddenly, he feels exposed.

With his heart beating in his throat, Jean leans forward with his entire weight, bearing down on the metal. But it barely budges. Instead his hand slips and he barely catches himself from smacking his face on the cobbled ground.

“Fuck!”

“Are you okay?” the stranger asks and Jean cuts his gaze up, taken aback by the concern.

“Yeah, yeah,” he breathes, his chest already heaving with exertion or maybe terror. He tries again, but it’s no use. He’s too damn weak. Pathetically, his arms are trembling as he struggles to lean into it with more force.

Getting to his feet once more, Jean swipes at his eyes, at his bangs dripping more water down his face.

The trapped guy is looking up at Jean with large eyes, the only thing in his ashen face that still seems alive. Faint freckles make him look young, but his wide-set jaw is shadowed by dark stubble.

“Okay, I’m gonna try to stand on it, yeah?”

The guy nods.

As Jean carefully places one foot on the spring, he automatically holds his arm out for balance. And like it’s the most natural thing, the guy at the ground reaches out to steady him. Jean meets his gaze, holding this stranger’s hand, as he steps onto the nasty trap.

With Jean’s whole weight on it, the thick jaws clamped around the leg open a fraction.

A grunt of pain flies from the guy’s mouth, a shock of pain contorts his face as the pressure on his injury is lessened. But again, it’s not enough. More than ever, Jean curses this frail body weight that has been forced upon him by the new world he lives in. Desperate, he bounces up and down a little in the hopes of forcing the jaws open wider. Slippery fingers hold his own tighter, keeping him from falling.

“I’m sorry,” he cries, “I’m sorry.”

Jean’s feet are back on solid ground, but he feels like the earth is heaving around him. With his free hand, he pushes his drenched hair out of his face again.

“Please don’t leave me here,” the stranger begs, eyes full of fear at Jean’s apologies.

There’s a painful twist in Jean’s chest.

“What’s your name?” he asks, squeezing the guy’s hand.

“Marco.”

“Marco, I’m Jean. I’m gonna go find something to pry this open and come back, okay?”

Biting his lip against his obvious pain, Marco echoes a small “okay” and lets go of Jean’s hand.

* * *

 

Jean and Marco stumble into what used to be a pub with a crash.

As soon as they’re out of the rain, Jean feels Marco sliding down to the wooden floor. Gently, he helps him down and then turns to close the door. The howling of the wind and the rush of the rainfall barred out, their heavy breathing fills the air; Jean's harsh, Marco mingled with barely swallowed noises of pain.

The inside of the place is, of course, completely trashed. The darkness of the paneling as well as the furniture is covered by a light film of dust and dirt and pulverized glass. What was once a comfortably place of gathering is now nothing but jumbled devastation. Jean's gaze, however, does not linger the pacifier lying on the surface of the bar or the dead pigeon on the window sill. What he's looking for is something he can use.

Long splinters protruding from a pile of chairs catches his eye and then he's dashing over, feeling purposeful again. The helplessness he'd felt in the face of that trap sat strangely in his gut, like he'd eaten something rotten. With a fresh rush of energy, he grabs the broken chair and smashes it against the wall.

Behind him, Marco yelps in surprise, then grumbles a “fuck” that sounds inexplicably adorable.

It takes a couple of swings until Jean holds two of the chair's legs in his hands. On impulse, he snatches its shabby cushion off he floor, before he hurries back to Marco's side. The muscles in the side of Marco's jaw are tense as he blinks up at the ceiling, probably concentrating all he has on not groaning in pain. He's begun trembling.

“I'm gonna try to make a splint for your leg,” Jean announces.

Marco looks at him, dubious, but then his eyes grow larger as he watches Jean pull out his jackknife and flip it open, then grab a roll of duct tape from his belt. For a moment, he seems to marvel at the unlikely assortment of, well, crap Jean has assembled, then he lets out a soft scoff of laughter.

“You some kind of MacGyver?”

The responding laughter feels foreign in Jean's chest.

“That guy wouldn't last two days out here,” he grunts with a grin, eyes on Marco's hurt leg. “Somehow, duct taping stuff over your soaking wet jeans doesn't seem smart.”

With a thump, Marco lets the back of his head fall back against the floor. His teeth are chattering. “Can't get any colder than this.”

Since Jean thinks preluding what he's gonna do with something cheesy like “this is gonna hurt a bit” or worse, he grabs for Marco's pant leg in silence. While he slices through the denim with his knife, from the hem upwards, Marco breathes harshly, bravely attempting to hide his pain every time his legs gets jostled even a little. Jean feels terrible for him, especially knowing it's about to get much worse.

Some things don't need saying.

* * *

 

Jean is shivering.

He’s curled up on the ground next to Marco, who has been passed out from exhaustion, his face finally smooth and undisturbed. Marco is wrapped up in Levi’s sleeping bag while most of his clothes hang dripping from a couple of chairs that are still intact. His lips are no longer blue, Jean notes. Now that it’s no longer weighed down by the heaviness of raindrops, Marco’s dark hair is beginning to curl slightly.

Clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, Jean presses against the floor as though it has any warmth to spare for him. The smart thing would probably be to take off his soaked clothes, but the idea of exposing his body to the cold air is just making his muscles tense up even more.

It’s so fucking cold, though.

There's one thought spinning through his mind again and again. There was a hunting trap set up in the middle of the city, cunningly hidden between trash littering the street. Somebody put up the trap there in the hope of catching a human, Jean was sure of it. He might avoid most people these days because he's convinced everyone is a selfish asshole, but something that deliberately fucked up is enough to make Jean uneasy.

Whoever it was clearly isn't looking to kill the victim. The possible reason for needing to keep somebody alive threaten to turn Jean's stomach.

Jean has no idea how long he's been trembling on the floor, stewing in dark thoughts, when he hears Marco rouse. The sleeping bag rustles and then Marco winces with a choked sound, obviously having moved his leg out of habit.

“Shit,” he gasps, a hand coming up to scrub over his face.

“How bad is it?” Jean asks through clenched teeth.

Marco's head whips around at him, as if in surprise to hear someone else there. He seems to find comfort in the sight of Jean, though.

“It hurts pretty badly, but it's nowhere near being caught in that trap.”

There's a brief silence as they look at each other, maybe just now meeting each other properly.

“Thank you for helping me,” Marco says seriously. “Thank you so much.”

Not sure what to say, shakes his head at him. “No, don't. I could never have left you there.”

It's then that his body is wrecked by more shudders, making his teeth chatter once more. Disbelief clouds Marco's features as he takes in Jean in his entirety.

“Why are you still in those clothes?” he asks with his voice rising. “You're gonna get sick!”

Jean lets out a dry laugh. “I don't have any others.”

“Get into the sleeping bag, then!”

Marco struggles to sit up, starting to unzip the sleeping bag. As soon as the cold air hits his bare skin, he seems to realize his mistake, so he looks around to find his clothes in a soggy pile close by.

“Then you'll be freezing,” Jean says unnecessarily. With a broken leg, Marco certainly doesn't need to add pneumonia to his plate.

“We'll share,” Marco replies easily, “there's room.”

Jean stares at him. With a stubborn look on his face, Marco unzips the sleeping bag further and holds it open. The freezing air has raised goosebumps on his skin. It seems incredibly difficult not to look at the way his nipples have hardened. Probably not a good time to mention how incredibly gay Jean is.

“Don't be ridiculous!” Marco hisses without Jean even having to say anything. “No matter what you say, this is still the best solution. So come on, it's _cold_!”

The utter ridiculousness of the last statement makes Jean laugh despite of himself. And so he gets up and begins to peel the damp layers of clothes off of himself. It feels a little weird to be stripping in front of a stranger, but there's really nothing erotic about it. He's freezing, shaking so badly he can barely get his pants open. The loss of weight he's gone through is particularly obvious on his chest, where the outline of his ribs is more prominent than ever.

Left only in his boxers and socks, Jean steps over to Marco who smiles at him, reassuring. Wiggling into the sleeping bag together is no easy feat, especially with Jean trying to avoid Marco's broken leg. There's some bashful giggling he'd never admit to if anyone asked, but mostly, Jean is just stunned.

As soon as his skin hits Marco's, his heart stumbles.

He's _so warm_.

Marco hisses at the contact that must be unbearably cold for him now after hours in the sleeping bag, but he doesn't pull back. Instead, he helps Jean arrange himself in the tight space, until he's plastered half on top of Marco, the position eerily couple-y.

Unable to help himself, Jean presses his chilled body against Marco's, sighing at how blissful it feels. His palms sneak underneath Marco's back, the tip of his nose finds a perfect spot on the side of Marco's neck. For several moments, they are both rigid against each other. Jean's muscles are still clamped up and quaking from the cold, while Marco's is still fighting to get used to the sudden chill shocking his system.

Only when they both begin to loosen up does Jean realize Marco's arms are around him, holding him close.

Another human is embracing him.

Jean can't remember the last time he was so close to someone, can't recall the last time somebody touched him with gentle consolation. He can feel Marco's chest rise and fall with every steady breath and quite automatically, his own breathing begins to match that rhythm. As Marco's warmth slowly starts to seep into his own body, Jean feels himself melt into the contact, yearning to be closer for more than just heat now. There is no way Marco doesn't notice that Jean's breaths are turning more and more into little sobs, but he doesn't say anything.

He just strokes a broad hand up and down Jean's spine, silent, solid.

* * *

 

Waking up half-naked on top of a stranger isn't as bizarre as expected. If it weren't for the whole apocalypse thing, the morning could almost be called domestic. They tell each other _good morning_ , words out of a different life for Jean. Ravenously, they share the dried food from Levi and some energy bars Marco has with him, then take turns standing under the leak in the roof to drink the rain water flowing down.

Their clothes are still too wet to wear under these conditions, but they agree that they don't want to linger in this place.

Somehow, it seems understood they will not be parting ways just yet.

Marco laughs at the disgusted face Jean makes as he wiggles into his damp clothes to go on a quick a supply run.

“For that, I'm bringing you back nothing but a mankini,” Jean grumbles, hating the cold taking hold of him again, but he sucks it up and goes.

Thankfully, it doesn't take him long to find something for them to wear. There are no warm jackets, already been snatched up by others looking through these apartments with good reason, but he does come across some incredibly ugly but warm Norwegian sweaters.

“Is there somewhere you were going?” Jean asks when they're getting dressed, pulling on layers over layers of probably dead people's clothes.

“Well, I have a camp,” Marco says, shoving the hem of a shirt down his pants which Jean had to help him put on over the splint. “But it's pretty far out and there's no way I can get there like this.”

“I'll take you,” Jean says without thinking, but he means it.

He doesn't want to leave Marco.

* * *

 

The house they end up in is full of doilies.

Marco can't stop laughing at them, his mirth palpable on Jean's side where they're pressed together. Even if his silliness is probably due to exhaustion, the sound is kind of wonderful and Jean wants it to last. Jean deposits him on the couch, then flops down next to him with a pitiful groan. His whole body aches, from not only walking all day, but also pushing Marco's weight forward. He closes his eyes, wanting nothing more than to rest.

“Jean, look.”

With difficulty, Jean opens his eyes to look at what Marco wants to show him. On the coffee table, Marco has arranged three doilies into a shape that vaguely resembles a dick with balls. He's not sure what his face looks like, but Marco dissolves into tired giggles once more.

“You're a fucking dork,” Jean says, his voice gentler than he intended.

He can't help but think Marco might be the best thing that's ever happened to him.

Around them, the light in the living room begins to dim as twilight descends over Trost.

“You don't have a camp, right?”

Taken aback by the sudden question, Jean blinks at Marco.

“No. Why?”

Brown eyes search Jean's face carefully, making him feel exposed in a way he can't really put his finger on.

“So you're alone?”

Jean swallows. “At first, I was with my mom. But now I'm on my own, yeah.” Understanding, Marco nods, but he looks sad for him. Not wanting to see that, Jean asks, “what about your family?” in return.

“My parents and two sisters also live at our camp,” he says and, thankfully, a bit of contentment returns to his face. “We lived in Jinae, so we were already pretty far outside of central Trost. It wasn't too hard for all of us to get out and find others”

“How many people _are_ in this camp?” From the sound of it, it must be more than one family.

“Hm, maybe around fifty? It's hard to keep up sometimes; people come and go.”

It sounds crazy to Jean, fifty people living together. Seeing his incredulity, Marco smiles and begins telling him about where he lives. Tells him about this abandoned farm outside of the city, where they've been growing all kinds of vegetables and herbs to live from. Where everyone has a place to sleep and a job to do inside of the community. Where they gather the falling rain in large barrels and always have a warm fire going in the cold seasons.

Marco tells him about Sasha, a girl their age, who grew up with a hunting-obsessed father and knows all about tracking and catching animals, and about her hilarious husband Connie. There are people who've seen some shit, like three friends from Shinganshina where this whole mess allegedly started. And there children who are too young to even remember any other way to live.

Listening to Marco speak, Jean feels warm and beautifully raw, like he's covered in fresh, unmarred skin. Marco's presence is like a soothing caress. He finds his gaze drifting more and more down to Marco's lips, drinking in the way they move and catching on their shape when they form certain sounds.

He doesn't even notice his eyes drifting shut, Marco's even voice lulling him in, until it stops.

“Hey, Jean?”

Unwilling to open his eyes, Jean just grunts in reply.

There's a smile in Marco's voice now. “When's the last time you slept in a decent bed?”

* * *

 

After slinging Marco's arm back over his shoulders to help him hobble into the bedroom of the apartment, bumping against furniture and door frames in the dark, Jean feels more exhausted than ever. Nevertheless, he automatically kneels down to carefully tug the pants off Marco. It feels strangely intimate now, surrounded by blackness.

The bed is huge and neatly made, one of those weird flecks of order in a world of chaos.

They both undress in silence and Jean is unexpectedly nervous at the prospect of sharing a bed with Marco. Squeezing into a sleeping bag together when they were both freezing and desperate was different from going through some domestic-ass couple's routine before going to bed. He almost feels like laughing when he helps Marco underneath the duvet and makes sure it covers him completely.

“I haven't been tucked in in a while,” Marco says, his voice laced with laughter.

“Shut the hell up!” Jean yells, embarrassment burning on his cheeks. He grabs a pillow and whacks Marco in the face with it. The _mpfh_ sound he hears helps a little with his abashment. A little.

* * *

 

Despite the weight of Marco on his chest, Jean can't remember the last time he woke up feeling so light.

In an attempt to fight consciousness, he buries his nose in the softness of Marco's hair, pressing his eyes closed tighter. Were alone, he could fall back asleep easily. But the sound of Marco's steady breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against his side, the warmth seeping from his body, just the feeling of being entangled with him has something in Jean's chest quivering too intensely for sleep.

He has no idea how much time he spends just breathing Marco in, before he finally gives in and opens his eyes. The little sunlight filtering in through the heavy drapes is dim and grayish, a fixture in this life. Jean blinks and rubs at his eyes with the hand not resting against the small of Marco's back, who sighs in his sleep.

Marco's features are relaxed, his lips slightly parted, and Jean can't quite fight the desire to touch him. Carefully, he brings his hand to Marco's cheek and lets his knuckles trail over his soft cheek, the coarse stubble on his law. Dark eyebrows twitch at the touch and Jean pulls his fingers away as though caught.

It's too late, though. Marco lets out a drawn-out, sleepy hum and presses his nose against Jean's sweater. The leg he threw over Jean's sometime in the night shifts as he stretches his body like a cat, wincing a little.

Jean's heartbeat is a stuttery mess and there is no way Marco can't hear it or feel it with the way he is pressed against Jean's ribs; Jean feels heat rising into his cheeks at the thought. He watches Marco blink slowly against the dull light, then raise his head to rest his chin against Jean's sternum and look at up at him.

The smile that spreads across his lips, his whole face, kind of takes Jean's breath away.

“Good morning.” Marco's voice is gravelly from sleep, adorable. He raises a hand to rub at his eyes. The hair at the back of his head stands up absurdly.

“Morning,” Jean breathes back at him.

Marco doesn't seem quite able to tear his still sleepy gaze from Jean's. He barely dares to breathe as they just lie there, looking. Moments pass, moments in which Jean is sure the swelling of his heart was going to suffocate him, and in which trembling heat is rising inside him like a boisterous tide, flooding his every sense and threatening to spill over.

With a little cough Marco breaks the eye contact and presses his flushed face back against Jean's chest, but not quite fast enough to hide the little smile on his lips.

“Another day in paradise,” he jokes lightly.

Jean snorts. “It'll be over as soon as we leave this bed.”

There's a silence as Jean's word sink in.

With his heart panicking in his chest, Jean stares up at the ceiling. He knows what's happening. He's falling, fallen, for this guy he'd just stumbled across mere days ago and he's never been good at hiding his feelings. Maybe it's ridiculous and hopeless. Maybe it's not even that he's really developing an intense bond with another person, but the mere fact that there is even a person around.

Nevertheless, it is absolutely true that Marco has made him happier than he has ever been since the rebirth of this devastated world.

Marco's palm slides up his chest, over his shoulder and settles warmly against the side of Jean's neck, his thumb under his jaw, tilting it slightly. Jean feels himself lean willingly into the touch, even though the prospect of facing Marco is more terrifying than any apocalypse.

The way Marco breathes his name makes Jean shiver.

And then Marco's lips are soft against his and Jean can't help the way he thaws into the embrace with a sigh. Running his hands up Marco's back, to the back of his neck, he tangles his fingers in soft hair, pulling him closer and angling his head.

The kiss is so tender it makes Jean's heart ache. There is a little smacking sound between their lips as they part for a second only to meet again a little more firmly. Marco lets out a deep hum, his hand still resting against Jean's cheek, the other resting on his hip to pull him closer, closer.

When he feels Marco's lips part under his, mouth so hot, a helpless noise escapes Jean's throat. He slides his tongue against Marco's and heat explodes between their mouths as they deepen the kiss with eager sighs, still holding on to each other tightly. Feeling dizzy, Jean swallowes the soft pants coming from Marco, his own breath coming heavier.

Oh god, he is kissing Marco. Jean is delirious from it, never wants this to end, their mouths making soft, wet sounds as their lips and tongues move slowly.

There was a little whimper, probably from Jean, when Marco breaks away with a shuddering breath. Resting their foreheads against each other and trying to catch their breaths, Jean reaches up to twine his fingers with Marco's with a hum. They're silent for a few heartbeats, basking in the warmth between them.

“I didn't think,” Marco begins eventually, some emotion Jean couldn't read coloring his low voice, “that I'd ever get to kiss anyone again.”

Jean's heart crumples at those words, just for the tiniest of seconds. The emotion in Marco's voice is so clear now; it's a wonder, it's the distinct absence of loneliness that has become an all to familiar companion in this life, it's pure awe in the face of this invaluable, precious gem of a moment in which everything is complete.

He never thought about it. All his mind had been focused on in the months of solitude, all Jean has allowed himself to think about was survival, just moving on with the burn in his muscles and the hollowness in his stomach and the ever-present fear eating away at his mind. And even in the freezing hours of the night, when the yearning for another person's presence burned in his chest and in his eyes, he never let himself consider the seemingly obvious conclusion that he will never have it again.

So he kisses Marco again and his intensity is matched beautifully. The kiss is searing, burning with the kind of desperation no degree of closeness can soothe. Strong arms are pulling Jean closer, enveloping him in that warmth he's already growing addicted to. While their lips move together slowly, hotly, Jean brings his hands up to cradle Marco's face, feeling the strong movement of that wide jaw against his palms.

The way Marco kisses is full of craving and longing, and Jean is happy to give himself over.

“If I have any say in it,” Jean breathes in between presses of lips, unable to hold in the feeling that was was spilling from the cracks in his chest, “you'll have a lot more opportunities to kiss someone.”

“Please,” is all Marco whispers, begging along with his hands and his lips still brushing along Jean's. Only when the aching storm in their chests has been calmed, when they have tangled every part of themselves up with each other, does the frantic need to be close simmer down to gentle touches and sighs so quiet they are dedications to each other.

* * *

 

Jean can tell Marco is in pain from the way he's panting, but every time he brings it up, he receives the same reply.

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” Marco will say with an attempt at a smile. “Let's keep going.”

And so Jean tightens his hold on Marco's waist and takes another step that Marco matches with a limp. They keep going. Sometimes they make conversation as they make their way slowly towards western Trost. What used to be a playground will shake loose a memory and they'll get lost in telling each other stories from their old lives; an undamaged car turned over onto its roof will prompt speculation and they'll get lost in each other's laughs.

“Why were you out here on your own anyway?” Jean asks eventually.

“Oh, I didn't say?” Marco haves, a smile soft on his lips. “I was looking for baby stuff.”

“ _Baby stuff?_ ”

Marco beams at him. “Sasha is pregnant. It won't be long and she'll need all kinds of things we don't have.”

Coming to a halt, Jean looks at Marco seriously. “You should've told me before.”

Worry shoves the smile from Marco's face. “What? Why?”

“Because,” Jean starts, sneaking his free hand into his belt, “I almost didn't pick this up.”

He pulls out the pacifier he found in the bar on the day they met.

The way Marco's face lights up is more stunning than any sunrise illuminating this terrible world.

“Jean, that's amazing!” He pulls Jean into him, hugging him fiercely and bubbling with joyous laughter. “I've been looking for one of those! I can't believe you found one!”

“It's what I do,” Jean tells him, holding on with his heart fluttering and his eyes closing. Never has finding anything for someone else made him this ecstatic. “I find things.”

Showing no desire to let go of him at all, Marco just shakes his head in apparent disbelief. “I'm so glad you found me.”

There's a lump in Jean's throat. He opens his eyes in the hopes of finding some steadiness in his surroundings.

Instead he finds the barrel of a gun.

“Sorry to interrupt,” a cuttingly friendly voice says from his right. “But you seem to owe us.”

The guy holding the gun into Jean's face is silent, but the expression on his face is no less terrifying than the words spoken by his companion. He's blond, burly, and looks like he'd kill without batting an eyelash.

From the way Marco has gone rigid against him, he expects there's a similar situation going on behind his back.

“What do you want?” Jean asks grimly. His arms have fallen to his sides, while Marco is still holding onto him, too unsteady to stand on his own.

“Well,” replies the voice and then its owner comes into view next to the blond guy. He's tall, with long scraggly hair and beard, almost like Jesus with glasses. His smile is like a punch in the face. “Your friend there seems to be hurt. How did that happen?”

“Why the fuck do you care?”

Barely more than a whisper, Marco breathes his name into his ear, a fearful warning.

“Let me guess,” apocalyptic Jesus continues with a hand gesture as though he's giving a presentation. He walks around them in a couple of long strides until he comes to a halt in front of Marco. Jean doesn't dare turn his head and take his eyes off the blond guy. “You stepped into a trap.”

“I did,” Marco confirms, voice hard while his hands tremble on Jean. Irrational pride blooms warmly in Jean's chest. “So what?”

“You broke our frankly very valuable trap. We relied on it for our livelihood, you see. Look at Bertholdt here. As you can see, his dominant arm has been cut off. He can't survive without its service.”

Jean's stomach drops.

Levi's words echo in his mind, words about cutting somebody's arm off. Words about them cutting Erwin's throat.

“So what you're telling me,” Marco snarls, disgusted, “is that you trap unsuspecting people and them take all their stuff?”

A scoff. “Is it really their stuff, though?”

“Don't argue, kid,” a cold female voice cuts in, just as Marco seems ready to argue. “Just give him your shit and we'll leave you alone.”

“Annie,” Jesus chastises simply and she doesn't speak again. “Anyway, give us your shit and we'll leave you alone.”

A tense moment of silence passes. Then, as though of one mind, Marco and Jean begin stripping off their most valuable things, the only things worth carrying on their backs. There go Levi's sleeping bag and the utility belt, full of useful utensils that have saved his life over and over again. He hears Marco's backpack hit the ground, containing the last of their food and a bottle of water. The last thing Jean lets go of is his knife. He can't bare throwing it to the ground like it's trash, but he has no choice.

A nervous looking guy, whose right upper arm ends in a stump, comes up in front of Jean and gathers up his things. Jean suppresses the urge to kick him in the face when he leans down. The mental image of Marco's torn throat keeps him frozen in fear.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Jesus says, overly kind. For some reason, there is still a gun pointed directly at Jean's face. “But we did mean _all_ your shit.”

Jean balks. “You want our _clothes_?”

The blondie snorts derisively.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Jesus replies as though that would be just _too_ horrible to imagine. “No, we want whatever is in Freckles' hand.”

In his hand?

“What, _this_?” Marco asks, voice high with how ridiculous the demand is. “What the fuck do you want with a pacifier?”

“I'm sure it'll be of use. Hand it over.”

Marco struggles to straighten up. “No.”

Jean's blood runs cold. Having heard it from Levi, Jean knows how dangerous these guys are, but Marco, poor wonderful Marco has no idea. Chilling horror spreads through Jean and he puts a steadying hand on the small of Marco's back.

It's obvious these assholes have no use whatsoever for a pacifier. But they want this to hurt. And by witnessing what passed between them moments earlier, they found something that will.

“Just give it to them,” Jean whispers.

Marco looks at him, pissed, but seems to falter when he sees the naked fear in Jean's face.

“Please, it's not worth it,” he begs further.

_I just found you._

_Please._

Setting his jaw, Marco nods. Jean feels him hold out his hand and give the pacifier to somebody.

“Thank you!”

And as quickly as they'd come, the strangers are gone.

* * *

 

The sun is rising over overgrown fields and meadows and Jean and Marco are still walking.

Thirst is burning savagely in Jean's throat and Marco seems close to collapsing. Where Jean is taking the strength to keep himself and Marco going, he doesn't know. All he knows is there's something in his gut, something pushing him towards a life he gave up on. But it's not enough after all.

They collapse into each other at the side of the little road. Tears of pain and frustration shimmer in Marco's eyes, spilling over to his cheeks when Jean leans down to kiss him gently.

“It's okay, it's okay,” Jean murmurs dumbly, despite the ache in his limbs and in his empty stomach. “We'll make it.”

Shaky hands come up to cradle Jean's face and they exchange more reassuring kisses, because that's all they have left. Winding around each other in the dewy grass, they watch the pale sun rise in the cloudy sky. Exhaustion and hunger wreck havoc on both their bodies, leaving them too uncomfortable to sleep. But there's a hand to hold, warmth to share between them.

And Jean wouldn't trade it for the world.

He wakes to a flurry of voices. Fear grips him, until he hears Marco's name called.

When Jean turns his head, he sees Marco smiling in relief.

“They found us.”

* * *

 

  
  


_Trost (noun) – comfort, solace_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think I deserve credit for not making a single Hufflepuff joke.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'd be delighted if you left me some feedback!
> 
> I'm also wingsofbadass on the t and the other t, come say hi!


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